And model manhood into better shape.
Has nought been wrought with you? Ah, idol mine,
You living image of all hope, would God,
Love’s niche were fill’d, love’s altar stood complete!”
LXXII.
Then Edith lean’d her face against her hand,
And slowly came the words that seem’d so dear:
“It may be, Norman, may—I know—I feel—
It must be earth, so roughly handling one,
Should round experience for some wise design.